


marked

by wordtheef



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (very briefly mentioned) - Freeform, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blow Jobs, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Lust, Office Sex, Past Rape/Non-con, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn, Power Imbalance, Power Play, Smut, Sort Of, Teacher-Student Relationship, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, getting over trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:42:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24253816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordtheef/pseuds/wordtheef
Summary: “Who is to say that love needs to be soft and gentle? ... Your soul and your body are your own, and yours to do with as you wish.”Brienne takes back her body.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 12
Kudos: 111





	marked

“What did you say to me?”

She flushed pink. “Nothing, sir.”

“Tarth — in my office, please. Now.”

She followed him, trying not to hear the laughing scorn. _The Beauty’s in trouble._

Her palms were damp; she scrubbed them on her skirt, surreptitiously she hoped, but when she turned around it was clear enough Jaime had been watching. 

He smiled a little, just one corner of his mouth up. “Close the door.”

“Look. I didn’t mean ...”

“I don’t care what you meant. Go stand against the wall.”

Heat in his voice; heat in her stomach. “There are people waiting outside.”

“Is that a problem?”

Instead of answering — arguing — she backed up, heels to the baseboard and hands pressing against the bare paint. There would be fingerprints left behind, smears of oil from her hands, there would be a _mark_. She had been here. She was here.

Jaime was staring at her, not moving.

Brienne allowed herself to stare back.

He was greying at the temples and she knew that, she liked that and Jaime was amused by her liking it, so that was what she looked at first. Then down his face — move quick past his eyes — admire the nose that she’d broken the first time he kissed her — thinking _he looks like that because of me._ Everyone could see that she had been there.

His lips were wet. He’d licked them recently.

She bit down on her own mouth, looking at him.

Broad shoulders, crossed arms, his body a little soft around the waist — he wasn’t what he had been at her age, he’d told her that, and it was alright. Who _cared_ what he used to looked like? Right now he was here. Right now his cock was heavy in his trousers. It had been that way all morning _(_ _had_ it been that way?), waiting for this. Waiting for her.

Her breath was heavy. A pressure. She was weighed down by it.

“Brienne?”

She nodded.

He pushed the hair behind her ear; he put his mouth to her neck, not kissing or biting but breathing. “You ran this morning? And showered after.“

He was right. “What do you smell?”

“You,” he said, soft. 

His hand was so light on her leg. Barely a touch, really. Barely anything. He hadn’t  done anything. There wasn’t any reason for her to flush red — not with shame — no reason to swallow hard. But she wanted to touch him. 

She flexed her fingers against the wall. “Jaime?”

“Stay put.”

“I want you.”

“I told you to stay where you are.” Not angry, not loudly. He was unbuttoning her shirt, slipping his hand into it to find her breast, making a sound of amused pleasure because she hadn’t worn a bra today — she had put it on and took it off again, feeling daring and bold and hopeful.

“Then give me something to do with my mouth.”

He hesitated — she felt it — before he went on, rubbing and pinching, bending down his head to taste her nipple ... “I’d rather be inside you."  


“Both. We can do both.”

Another pause.

She stared at his bowed neck. Please.

“I don’t know if --"

“You can. You will. I’ll be careful.” Pressing her palms against the wall, feeling the sweat gathering again, but she wouldn’t move from where he’d put her, she would stay put, she would obey: “Let me,” she said.

Jaime kissed her.

She arched into it just as he stepped away and said, sounding thickly grudging: “Fine.”

So she finally  finally put her hands on him, sank to her knees with her nails digging in to his backside, rubbed her cheek on his —

“Brienne!”

“Doing my extra credit,” she said: but yes, alright, she would be good. Fine.  _Fine_. A little bit of unclothing and his cock was out, warm and pink and firm and glorious. She rubbed her thumb on it just a moment and took it in her mouth.

The best was the heat of him, the pulse against her tongue; the best was the noise he made.

She hadn’t enjoyed this before Jaime.

Before they — before they began this  _thing_ , she’d sat here in his office, shredding a paper tissue to bits. Telling him about a certain bet her friends had made on her virginity: this much for sucking, this much for ass, this much for pussy.

_And who won?_ he had said, dry.

She shook her head.

_Brienne,_ he’d said. _You will never have to do any of that again._

In a certain light, she could consider this therapy. Maybe some day she would. Maybe some day it will be a story she tells her friends — _When I was in college, I got sort of wild ..._

Right now she didn’t care about stories. She wanted Jaime’s hand clenching in her hair, she wanted the taste of him in her mouth, she wanted more of the noises he was making. She  _wanted_ him, and it was so goddamn good to want anything after that long flat stretch of grey grief that the change of his taste didn’t register until he pushed at her a little too rough, a little too hard. _Stop._

She pulled off. Sat back. “Sorry.”

“Stand up,” he said; he was already tugging on her arm. “Up.”

“Against the wall, or --"

“Here. Right here. Push up your skirt, Brienne — do you wear that on purpose to make me want you--"  His hands fumbled at her underpants, trying to tug them down and touch her at the same time. “You want me.”

“I want you,” she said to him; her voice caught on a wave as he caught her clit, rubbing it. “Now. Please.”

“You nearly brought me off,” he said, not moving except his fingers inside, his thumb outside. “I told you not to, and you nearly did anyway. Are you sorry for it?”

“Yes,” trying to move her body, to get more of him — more friction — more of everything. “I’m sorry.”

“You aren’t really sorry.”  He used just one finger now and it wasn’t enough, she needed ...  “Tell me the truth.” Dragging his finger up the length of her cunt, not staying anywhere good, and there wasn’t any friction at all no matter how she squirmed because she was wet to dripping. “You wanted me to finish.”

“No. Or yes, but — I only didn’t want to stop, I wanted — you — I want _you,_ please. I didn’t want to stop. I don’t want you to stop. Please.”

He moved his hand away and she could cry from it, she could scream, but he rubbed his cock against her and finally _finally_ pushed inside with a long shuddering groan she felt in her own body, from her own chest, the feeling of brightness and change and relief overwhelming, and she could only give in. She was rising, she was carried, sweat-damp and grateful, a leaf unfurling after winter, and when she dug her nails into Jaime’s back and he came apart with another one of those awful sounds, she clenched down harder, took him further, and when she was satisfied, still wanted more.

**Author's Note:**

> quote in summary is from the film _Secretary_ ; i haven’t seen it in a zillion years but the line has always stuck with me, and, well. it seems apropos


End file.
